Six folders.
Fifty-nine different papers.
Hundreds of referrals to the name Christian Dietrich Kleiner.
Four hours spent half-awake, patiently waiting.
Ludwig rubbed his eyes yet again, forcing himself to stay awake. Falling asleep could be dangerous and quite possibly cost him his job if someone besides Hochstetter found him. Already he'd tried reading through Christian's files, organizing a bookshelf, and sorting through the copious amounts of "confiscated" items to keep himself conscious. His office was much cleaner than when he'd started, but now he was out of things to do.
What could Hochstetter possibly have done for four hours? Ludwig knew it didn't take that long to ask a few questions and come back to Headquarters. Unless he was doing a serious interrogation with Christian, there was no reason for him to be gone so long. Knowing Hochstetter, he'd gotten an answer, forgot about it, bought a beer somewhere, met a girl, and Ludwig wasn't going to see him for a week. He'd vanished like that in the past, coming back to work seven days later and acting like nothing had ever happened. Something happened on those mysterious disappearances, and the red lipstick on his collar told the story better than Hochstetter could.
"I'll be back in like, twenty minutes," Ludwig said to himself, mocking Hochstetter's upbeat voice. "As if. I should've known better than to believe him. This is one of his damn jokes, isn't it? He set up this whole thing to make me suffer. I've got to show up for real work in five hours – I can't keep wasting my life waiting for someone who I almost know isn't going to come."
Ludwig leaned back in his chair, considering how bad it would be to leave. It wasn't anywhere near the level of misery Hochstetter put him in on a weekly basis, so Ludwig figured leaving wasn't too bad. There were plenty of worse things he could do.
And just as Ludwig grabbed his coat, he heard the jangle of keys. His immediate thought was that one of the temporary prisoners had gotten hold of the keys – until he realized the keys were on his desk. Soon there were footsteps echoing throughout the hall, a familiar voice shouting Ludwig's name. The office door was throw open, Hochstetter stumbling in. He fell back against the wall, gasping for air.
"What's Christian's middle name?" he managed to say in between gasps, looking over at Ludwig. His blond hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his red armband missing and shirt partially undone. Just as Ludwig expected.
"I spent four hours here, and all you have to say to me is one question you damn well know the answer to? I have plenty of questions myself."
"What's his middle name?"
"Where even were you?" Ludwig continued. "How much have you had to drink? What's the name of your new sweetheart? When am I going to see you again?"
"Please, Ludwig, I know what you're thinking. If I were you, I'd be thinking the same thing. If you'd tell me his middle name, I'll explain everything," Hochstetter said, wiping the sweat off of his forehead.
Ludwig resisted the urge to start lecturing the man about his inconsideration, instead trying to seem as calm as possible. "You know his middle name is Dietrich. However, I have reason to believe you aren't sober or in the right mindset, so I can't blame you for not remembering. Tell me what happened."
"His middle name isn't Dietrich."
"Seriously, how much did you drink?"
"No, I'm not joking. His middle name isn't Dietrich," Hochstetter said.
"Yes, it is." Ludwig opened one of the files with a snap. "Full name: Kleiner, Christian Dietrich," he read aloud, looking over at Hochstetter. "Give me one good reason to believe whatever lie you're going to tell me."
Hochstetter came over and sat down in front of him, bearing a grin Ludwig wanted to rip off of his face. "Christian told me his middle name was Francis, not Dietrich," he said. "I knew that he was lying, so I asked to see his papers. I swear to God, they said Christian Francis Kleiner. Someone here is wrong, and it certainly isn't us."
"If that's the only thing you learned, tell me why it took you four hours to get here."
"Christian invited me to get acquainted with him, and we went to his apartment in the inner city. While he was on the phone with someone, I checked through most of his papers, and every one that had his full name on it said Christian Francis Kleiner. It was like the name Dietrich didn't exist. And, ja, I did drink with him. Not as much as you're implying, though."
"What happened to your shirt and armband, then? I presume Christian didn't do that to you," Ludwig said. "Or is there something else I should know about before you go hide away in your own little Berchtesgaden with Christian?"
"Oh, that?" Hochstetter smiled again as he buttoned his shirt back up. "Christian has this boss with a cute secretary who stopped by, and she was rather interested in a charming Gestapo man. While Christian and whoever the guy was talked in some other language –"
"Do you know what language?"
Hochstetter shrugged. "Probably French or Italian. What does it matter? Anyway, this girl couldn't keep her hands off of me. I tried to stop her, I promise. And then I had a few more drinks with Christian and ran all the way back here to tell you everything. I didn't even get the girl's phone number. Or her name."
"And you're a higher rank than me, kriminalkomissionar?" Ludwig asked. "My dog could tell that Christian set you up. I ought to be in your spot."
"…What do you mean?"
"Isn't it obvious? Christian's got history we don't know about, and he's trying to cover it. I highly doubt his real name is even Christian. He must've had a plan set up in case this happened, like any smart man would. Which is why he allowed you to look through his papers with the phone call, boozed you up, and sent in a woman. Because he knows your type too damn well. You should've sent me to ask the questions. I would've gotten the full story and an arrest."
"That's kind of harsh," Hochstetter muttered.
"I waited here for four hours for you to tell me you fell for Christian's trap." Ludwig got up, pulling his coat on. "I thought you were going to come back with something useful. Who knows, maybe when you've got a clear head, you'll remember something worthwhile. Gute Nacht, sir. I'm honoured to work under such an intelligent man like you."
"It was an honest mistake anyone could make. Don't act like you would've done better in the situation," Hochstetter snapped.
"I would've. You would see Christian locked up in one of those cells right now if I had gone."
"Who's to say we don't have our records wrong?" Hochstetter said. "Maybe Christian was telling the truth and you're just paranoid like your brother."
"Are you seriously siding with Christian? God, you're such an…You know what, I am paranoid. Which is a good thing, because then I don't go trusting every person I come across," Ludwig said, walking out of the office.
"Oh, please. Everyone knows you're the weak link here. You may not trust people as well as I do. Your problem is that you won't hurt them. I could've killed Christian so many times tonight, and you wouldn't have even thought about it."
"Because I'm not a murderer like the rest of you. I have a sense of what's right and wrong."
"You're weak, kid! If you want to be in the Gestapo, you have to be able to shoot someone in the head without a second thought! If you killed someone, you'd cry about it to your big brother every night for the rest of your damn life. You already rely on him too much."
Ludwig turned on his heels, marching back into the office. He was used to shrugging passive-aggression with Hochstetter, used to forgetting sadistic comments, but he had to stand up for himself at some point. "You're horrible," Ludwig growled, grabbing the man by the collar. "Some days I wish I could kill you. I really wish I could put a bullet in your thick skull."
"Then do it right here." Hochstetter grabbed his gun, holding it up for the man. "Show me you've got the strength to do it. Put this gun to my head and pull the trigger."
"Are you trying to get me fired now?" Ludwig asked, pushing the pistol away from him. "You've probably got someone out there who's going to conveniently come into the room while I have a gun at your head."
Hochstetter tore Ludwig's hand from his collar, pressing the Luger into his palm. "I can assure you there isn't anyone out there. Pull the trigger."
Ludwig held up the pistol, examining the scratched metal. How many lives had the Luger taken?
"Do it," Hochstetter urged. "I can almost guarantee the gun isn't loaded. Take a chance."
"You can almost guarantee?" Ludwig started to pull out the magazine when Hochstetter grabbed his wrist.
"Take a chance, kid. You've got to take some risks in your life, so do it," Hochstetter said. "I've lived a good life. This won't be such a bad ending."
Ludwig took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Hochstetter wouldn't be so eager to have him pull the trigger if the pistol was loaded, would he? With shaky hands, Ludwig cocked the gun and held it up to Hochstetter's forehead.
"Alright, you've got step one down," Hochstetter said too cheerfully for a murder victim-to-be. "It's only a two-step process. Now, pull the trigger."
Ludwig put his finger over the trigger.
"If that gun is loaded and this really is the end, you've got a train to catch at six, kid. Jump one to Switzerland and don't look back. I wouldn't stick around this shit town for longer than I have to. Go on, shoot me."
Ludwig wanted to prove that he wasn't scared. He honestly did. And knowing Hochstetter, the gun wasn't loaded. But he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger, not with the chance that the Luger was loaded. Ludwig didn't see a bloodthirsty criminal when he looked down at Hochstetter; he saw a guiltless man. He saw a man with a bright future. He saw a man with a story full of twists and turns that traced back to Berlin. He saw a man that was once a young mischievous boy with big dreams and stunning blue eyes.
And he couldn't take that away from Hochstetter. Ludwig couldn't end a story that hadn't finished.
"You can't do it," Hochstetter said slowly, a bit unsure of his words. "You cannot pull that trigger for the life of you."
"I'm choosing not to."
Hochstetter got up, giving Ludwig a look he'd often seen his father give Gilbert. He put a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, looking like he wanted to say something meaningful and couldn't.
And then he slammed Ludwig up against the wall.
It took a moment for the fantasy colours to clear from Ludwig's eyes – and then he noticed the two strong hands holding him in place. Hochstetter dug his thumbs under Ludwig's collarbone, grinning like a madman. A sharp pain spread across Ludwig's chest, and he held back a yelp. The innocence in Hochstetter was gone, replaced by the same murderous look Ludwig had seen in so many people. He wasn't guiltless.
He was insane like the rest of them.
"Can you shoot me now, kid?" he asked, moving his hands closer to Ludwig's throat. "Can you save your life?"
"You won't kill me, and I won't do the same to you," Ludwig snapped, pushing Hochstetter back.
Hochstetter put his hands around Ludwig's neck. "You won't raise that gun, not even when I have this much monopoly over you?" He tightened his grip, digging his nails into Ludwig's skin. "Put that gun to my head and pull the trigger and I'll stop. I don't care if it's a blank, I'll stop."
"What…are you…doing?" Ludwig gasped, trying to wrench Hochstetter's hands from his throat.
"I'm proving a point, kid! You don't have the strength to shoot someone."
Ludwig threw the pistol down, pushing Hochstetter off of him. The man staggered backwards, catching himself on the desk. And yet, he kept grinning. He took a step forward, approaching Ludwig like he was a wild animal. Hochstetter knelt down, grabbing his Luger.
"You couldn't do it," he said, standing upright again. Hochstetter held the gun up to his head, putting his finger over the trigger. "And look."
Ludwig screwed his eyes shut when he saw Hochstetter pull the trigger, awaiting a gunshot. All he heard was an empty click.
"It's empty!" Hochstetter snapped. He cocked the gun again and pulled the trigger, Ludwig watching this time. There was no bang, no blood, no death.
"It doesn't make me any less of a person because I couldn't shoot you. If anything, you've changed my opinion about you," Ludwig said, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Seeing as you tried to choke me."
"Please, that wasn't anywhere near what choking was like." Hochstetter put the Luger down on the desk, coming over to Ludwig. Immediately, Ludwig held up his fists. He wasn't about to let Hochstetter win again.
"And you call yourself a kriminalinspektor?" Hochstetter scoffed. "You're a joke, kid. A joke. You're no Gestapo prodigy like everyone's told you. Go back to whatever hell city you came from and don't think of showing up here ever again."
Ludwig didn't have time to think of a comeback – Hochstetter's fist connected with his cheekbone before he could say something.
Natalya almost broke character when Roderich walked into the room, hiding her hint of a smile with her opera gloved hand. "What took you so long?" she asked after she'd composed herself again, her dark red lips back in the almost-frown she wore.
"Some of us have lives outside of this," Roderich said, sitting down in a velvet chair across from Natalya. He put Marlene's case in his lap, attempting to look as professional as possible when he was mildly hungover and under too much stress for so early in the day. "Not that you would know about having a life."
"And you have one? You're an alcoholic, Fraulein von Wolffe. A drunk."
"Better than being a demon like you."
"Not by much," she said. "Now, come here. I have something to tell you that can't be said out loud."
"You're not going to kill me, are you?" Roderich said – it never hurt to ask, especially with a dangerous woman like Natalya.
"Believe me, if I was going to end your pathetic life, I would've done it already."
Roderich slowly got up, going over and sitting down beside the woman. He waited for the knife in his chest or a muted gunshot; thankfully, it never came. Still rather untrusting of Natalya, Roderich made sure to put Marlene as far away from her as possible.
"What, are you scared I might hurt your precious violin?" Natalya asked, twisting a stray strand of almost white hair around her finger in ironic innocence.
"Marlene is a Stradivarius, not just any violin," Roderich said. "And a gift from the Führer."
"You tell me I don't have a life, and you name your violins," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I have good news and bad news, Fraulein von Wolffe. What would you like me to tell you first?"
"Considering your personality, the good news is actually horrible and the bad news is equivalent to being tortured by the Gestapo. I'll take good," Roderich said, watching an aristocratic looking man come into the lobby. He looked like someone Roderich would see at one of his concerts, one of the obnoxious upper class Germans who thought they knew everything about music.
Natalya rested her head against Roderich's shoulder, nestling close to the man. "Put your arm around me," she hissed, her almost-frown turning into an almost-smile. Roderich did exactly as he was told, wondering what had gotten into the woman. Was she trying to make the two of them look like lovers?
"…What are we doing?" Roderich asked, looking down at Natalya.
"It's not 'we,' dear. It's 'what am I doing?'" she said, making much less sense than usual. "You in particular cannot raise suspicions, so I wanted a very inconspicuous look. As far as he," – she glared at the upper class man – "knows, we're lovers."
"Well, yes, I can see that. I was a bit confused by the sudden development and quite concerned for my life. Can you give me whatever horrible news you have already?"
"You're going on your first real mission today," Natalya whispered. "You are the only one of us with a free pass to Berlin, so we didn't have much of a choice who we wanted to send. See the briefcase next to me?" She made the slightest motion towards it with her head. "Take that with you. Don't open it unless you have a death wish. Actually, why don't you open it?"
"You're absolutely hilarious. I presume there's some sort of explosive inside?" Roderich said, stroking the fur of Natalya's stole. She didn't even notice, keeping her violet eyes on the other man who clearly wasn't a threat.
"Aren't you a smart one? Yes, there is an explosive inside. If all goes according to plan, we're going to off a few SS men. If it doesn't, well, Hitler's going to need a new musician."
"So you are trying to murder me. Why not send Basch or Mathias? I'm sure you could pay for their ticket."
Natalya glanced up at Roderich. "You're the man who almost can't get arrested. And it's not going to be that hard. The only thing you're doing is leaving the briefcase in a room where a SS meeting's going to be. It's in the same office as the one you're going to be in with Himmler. Room 17. Don't worry, the meeting is two hours after your performance. Then you get on a train and come back. No one will ever know it was you."
"You're insane," Roderich said. "I didn't sign up for murder."
"It's not murder, dear. Think of it more as…I lied, it is murder. But lawful murder. These men are the ones in charge of the camps. They've killed so many already. All you're going to do is return the favour."
"I can't."
Natalya dug her fingers into his arm – what would she have done if there wasn't someone in the room with them? "You're going to do it," she snarled. "Those men have killed my people. They took my sister. She is dead, I am sure of it. You must kill them."
"Then why aren't you doing this?" Roderich asked. "Why don't you come with me, make up a lie, and do this yourself? I don't want to even hurt someone, no matter how wicked they are."
"It isn't going to be that hard. The only thing you have to do is leave a briefcase in a room. Simple as that. Lukas even made a whole false lead for the Gestapo that'll take them to France. The entire case is flammable, so there will be no evidence."
"Stop being so damn calm about this. This is a murder, Natalya."
She shrugged. "I don't see it as one. To me, it is revenge."
Roderich sighed – he couldn't argue himself out of the mess. Natalya was dead set on killing the SS men, whoever they were. And even though they were horrible people who didn't deserve to live, Roderich didn't want to be the one to end it all. He'd never even thought of hurting someone before, never mind been part of an assassination plot. How was he supposed to live with himself knowing he'd ended someone's life?
"Why don't you tell me the bad news?" Roderich said, trying to swallow the wretchedness of everything she'd told him.
"If you thought an assassination was bad, wait until you hear this," Natalya said. "Mathias, Lukas, Basch, and Francis have decided that it is in everyone's best interest for you and I to be…romantically involved. Mathias and Basch were the most adamant."
That certainly took Roderich's mind off of murdering.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Roderich asked; he had to have heard her wrong.
"They want us to play lovers. Mathias told me it's so I can get away with more and so we can do missions together and plenty of other shit reasons. Don't think I want to take any part of his fantasy."
"We don't have time for romance, there's a war on," Roderich said. Why hadn't Mathias set her up with someone else who was good with relationships? Francis would've been an excellent choice, being so well versed in the world of romance. Roderich was always working or hungover, he was awkward, and he was definitely not ready to pretend to be in love with a Russian she-wolf.
"Well, obviously. Take you for example. What happened when the war started? Divorce." Again, Natalya had to hide her smile with her hand – if Roderich wasn't the person he was, he would've slapped her right there. "Never mind that. You've got yourself a new girlfriend who wants you decapitated. Don't even think about touching me unless you want to lose your entire hand."
"Same goes for you."
Natalya grabbed the briefcase from beside her, putting it in Roderich's lap. For a second, he was rather impressed with it – Lukas had gone so far as to put the initials "J.T." in the corner. And then he remembered there was a bomb inside and immediately put the briefcase down on the coffee table, pushing it as far away from him as he could.
"Don't be so childish, it won't instantly detonate. Just be careful." Natalya took Roderich's hand in her own. "I will forever hate you if you mess this one up."
"I'll be dead if I mess this up," Roderich snapped. He wasn't sure what was worse – putting his life in more danger or taking someone else's life.
"Remember that you're doing this for me."
"And that makes me want to murder someone."
Natalya clenched his hand so tight Roderich was sure a few bones broke. "This is for my sister. You either kill them or there will be no romance because you are dead."
"You're too kind," Roderich said. "However, I ought to be off to Berlin. So if you could let me go, that'd be wonderful."
"I hope your train derails on the way back," she said with a faked smile, handing the briefcase back to him. Roderich hesitantly took it, praying it wasn't going to be his last day on Earth.
He didn't bother to say anything more to Natalya before grabbing Marlene and leaving the hotel. What more was there to be said? Roderich was off to have an eight-hour panic attack, preform for Himmler, knock off a few SS men, and be home by six the next day to drown his sorrows in beer.
Roderich stepped back out into the snow covered city, shifting the weight of the briefcase. Whatever explosives Lukas had wired inside were far too heavy for a believable briefcase; Roderich made a mental note not to let anyone else hold it. He went over to his car, putting the briefcase in the trunk. As gently as he possibly could, Roderich closed the hatch, hoping this wasn't the end for his Horch.
"Roderich!" he heard Natalya call from somewhere behind him, her heels clicking against the pavement. He turned to face the woman, happy to see that she wasn't holding a pistol or a knife.
"What do you –"
He didn't have time to finish, as Natalya pulled him into a kiss.
Roderich couldn't think of the last time he'd kissed someone, never mind been in close contact with a woman. It's been at least a year since I've done anything remotely romantic, he thought for a fleeting moment as he instinctively pulled Natalya closer. Everything felt wrong – Natalya had met Roderich a handful of days ago, Roderich was in love with his ex-wife, and they were acting like they'd loved each other for years. He wasn't sure how to go about loving someone who he knew was carrying no less than five weapons.
"We've got to start making a scene with you and I," Natalya whispered when she broke away, putting her arms around Roderich's neck.
"Oh, believe me, you've made a big enough scene already. What the hell was that?" Roderich growled through a smile. His face was burning, as was Natalya's. "And could you give me at least some warning next time?"
"We're lovers, Fraulein von Wolffe. We don't need warning. And believe me, I am doing this to find your vulnerable side. The minute Mathias says we can call the romance off, you're getting a knife through your broken heart."
"Please, I'd off myself before you had the chance. Kissing you is going to make me wish I was dead."
Natalya ran her fingers over the lapels of Roderich's coat, straightening his tie for him. "I must say, I'm surprised we've finally agreed on something. Being even remotely nice to you is going to make me consider doing myself in. And by the way, Mathias said he has some things to give you to keep at your house. Will you be back tomorrow?"
"I'll be back, however, there's no saying how sober I'll be," Roderich said.
"Maybe having a new girlfriend will help you sober up. I'm not fond of drunks. My last pretend lover was an alcoholic, and now he's dead."
"Aren't you the sweetest little woman a man could have?"
Ludwig put a hand to his neck, hiding one of the many bruises. He could see the fist-sized purple splotches over his bare chest, a few clung to his neck, and one strip of blackish-blue ran along his cheekbone. Dried blood made trails from his nose, and scratches crisscrossed over his neck. After trudging home at two in the morning, he'd glanced in the mirror and decided that he didn't look all that bad before going to bed. When he woke up that morning, Ludwig had vainly hoped there would be a way to hide the fight's marks.
However, now that he was fully conscious, Ludwig was having serious doubts about more than just his appearance. If he looked this bad, what did Hochstetter look like? And the two's offices were separated by a thin wall – Hochstetter could decide to resume the fight at any time he wanted. The rest of Headquarters wouldn't care that two of their best agents were trying to rip each other to pieces; no, they'd encourage it.
And then there was the whole Christian ordeal on top of everything. How were the two going to finish the case if they wanted each other dead?
I don't get it, Ludwig said to himself, wiping away the dried blood with a wet rag. What did I do to deserve anything that happened last night? I had a valid reason to be angry; Hochstetter had no reason. I'm not weak because I won't kill an innocent man. Hell, my conscience makes me better than everyone at Headquarters. At least I have morals and won't murder someone for something they didn't do.
Still, Hochstetter's right. According to the Gestapo, I am the weak link. Maybe I should quit and go find something else to do. It'd be better than getting the shit beat out of me for not wanting to hurt someone I used to consider an ally.
Ludwig buttoned his shirt up, tugging on the collar to try and hide some of the bruises. What were people going to think, seeing a man in SS uniform who'd lost a fight? The Gestapo were supposed to be strong and unopposed and never a failure. That morning, Ludwig was the opposite of everything the Nazis wanted him to be.
"Maybe I should quit," Ludwig said aloud, positioning his red armband so the swastika was perfectly centered. "Maybe this isn't worth it. Maybe I really am a failure."
He looked back up at the mirror – at the tired blue eyes, at the dark bruise, at the hopeless man standing before him. Time and again he'd seen a striking Aryan in the mirror, the perfect example of what a German citizen should look like. That morning, he saw a broken, worn down man, a scared soldier fighting a war he couldn't win.
And no matter how hard he tried, the war was never going to end.
"I suppose I can't give up yet," Ludwig said. "After all, I've got to get Basch arrested. And Roderich, and perhaps Christian. And then when that's over, everything can be over…" he trailed off, shoving the thoughts far from his mind.
"What do you think, Berlitz? Do I look alright?" Ludwig asked in a much less serious voice, turning to face the old dog. Berlitz took one look at him and yawned.
"Can't you have a little bit of sympathy for me?" Ludwig went over to Berlitz, ruffling the dog's white fur. "I worry about you every day, and you could care less about my wellbeing."
Berlitz stood up, walking out of the room.
"Oh, so you think you're too good for me?" Ludwig said with a smile, brushing the white hairs from his black uniform. A white dog and an SS uniform didn't work well together. "And who's the one who feeds you and takes care of you?"
He went out into the front room, mentally preparing himself for the day ahead of him. Work was going to be interesting, to say the least. Hochstetter was liable to do anything that day, if he was even there. The man was fond of calling in sick and straight up vanishing for days at a time, no one knowing where he went off to. And somehow, he was a higher rank than Ludwig, who showed up for work every day on time.
"I'll see you tonight, Berlitz!" Ludwig called over his shoulder. "Try to work on sympathy while I'm gone!"
And with that, Ludwig was off to fight his war.
Over the past weeks, he'd realized how deep his hatred for winter was. Ludwig's Mercedes wasn't fond of running in winter, leaving Ludwig with a little under a kilometer to walk to work. At the beginning of December, he'd figured it wouldn't be worse than walking in summer. And for a while, it was exactly as he suspected. The walk was cold and lonely and gave Ludwig a bit too much time to think over things.
Until it snowed. Not only was he walking to work at five-thirty a.m., he was trudging through snowdrifts. By the time he got to work, his feet were numb and he was plotting the destruction of mankind.
And today was no different. When he finally reached Headquarters, Ludwig was cursing himself for not staying in bed and forgetting about his perfect record. He went inside, going straight to his office without a word to anyone. As he went to open the door, Ludwig found it already unlocked. Did he forget to lock it last night? Or even worse, was Hochstetter already there, waiting for him?
He pushed open the door, not at all surprised to see Hochstetter sitting on the edge of his desk, a cold smile on his face. Ludwig almost grinned at the sight of the bandage holding his nose straight, then decided it better not to enrage the man.
"What do you want?" Ludwig asked, closing the door behind him. This was between him and Hochstetter, not the entire office.
"Holy shit, I thought I looked bad," Hochstetter said dryly, his seemingly undying cheer gone. "Look at you."
"I asked you a question. What do you want?"
"Nothing like what you're thinking," Hochstetter said. "No fights or anything. I'm leaving after this, but I thought you ought to know something."
"Leaving as in forever leaving, or running off to wherever it is you go when things get too difficult for you?"
Hochstetter rolled his eyes. "I wish I was leaving forever. I wouldn't miss your passive-aggressive comments. I'm going to work out some things that don't involve you. Maybe you'll have calmed down by the time I come back and we can talk this out rationally."
"You're the one that started this whole thing," Ludwig snapped, going over to the man. Now that he was closer, Ludwig could see the bloody and bruised imprints of his knuckles in Hochstetter's nose. "None of this would've happened if it wasn't for you and your damn lust for every woman in this country."
"Whatever. I'm not here to talk about my love life with you." Hochstetter held up a file, flipping through a few pages before handing it to Ludwig. "You didn't grab this one last night. It's my handwritten file on this whole helluva case we've been working on. Handwritten." He tapped a name among the cursive. "I swear I never wrote 'Christian Francis Kleiner,' and there it is, in my handwriting."
"How do I know you didn't write that in this morning?" Ludwig said, handing the folder back to Hochstetter. "This is your way of getting back at me, isn't it? Trying to prove that I'm paranoid and insane and whatever else you want to call me."
"I know you won't take my word, but I swear I didn't write that in."
Ludwig grabbed one of the six files from his desk, holding it up for Hochstetter to see. "And I suppose you haven't tampered with these?"
"I've been here for five minutes. You can check my time card. That's not enough time to write up hundreds of papers," Hochstetter replied. "Believe what you want. I'm starting to think we were the wrong ones this time around."
Ludwig opened the folder, looking at the first line. Sure enough, "Kleiner, Christian Francis" was printed, the e in Kleiner slightly crooked like it always had been. It didn't appear to have changed since the night before, looking exactly how Ludwig remembered it, save for the middle name.
"You were tired, I was borderline drunk, we could've made a mistake. I'm not completely ruling out Christian having a dark secret, though," Hochstetter said, snatching up another folder. "Christian Francis Kleiner," he read aloud. "Sounds like your typical bastard."
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Ludwig growled, looking down at Hochstetter.
"Ja, I do." Hochstetter got up, going over to the door. For a second he stood there, as if he wasn't sure if he should leave yet. "Hey, kid, I know you're mad at me," he started, looking back at Ludwig, "But can you do me a favour?"
"I doubt it."
"Don't tell anyone I left, alright? You know nothing about my disappearance."
"I'll see what I can do," Ludwig said. "I'm not making a promise."
Hochstetter smiled. "Thanks. And, hey, I'm sorry about what I said last night. I'm not sorry for punching you, because sometimes people need that. You're…You're not a weak link. Hell, you're stronger than most of us here. So what if you can't kill someone? That makes you a helluva lot better than me."
"Is this a real apology, or are you going to start yelling at me for something else I can't do?" Ludwig asked – Hochstetter couldn't be apologizing.
"No, this is real. You stay the way you are, kid. Maybe you've still got some good left in you. There isn't a whole lot left of that in this world." Hochstetter stepped out the door, on the way to wherever it was that he went.
"So, Josef's told me you're a propaganda man now. Is that true?"
"I wouldn't call myself a propaganda man. To answer your question, yes, I am working with the ministry of propaganda," Roderich said, tightening his grip on the briefcase's handle. Here he was; a Jew, talking to the mastermind behind the Gestapo while holding a time bomb that was intended to end a few lives of said mastermind's generals. What wasn't there to be afraid of?
"I always thought you would make a good Gestapo man. Shame everyone else got to you first." Himmler smiled, pushing up his circle-rimmed glasses.
I would make a good Gestapo man? Does he know who he's talking to?
I hope he doesn't.
"Don't flatter me, sir. I'd be wreck in the Gestapo. I'm a wreck in propaganda," Roderich said, once again shifting the briefcase's weight. Time was wasting away, making Roderich more and more nervous. He still had a train to catch before Berlin had a panic attack over seven generals dying in a freak explosion. Himmler sounded so proud of the generals, too, making everything worse.
"You don't seem too fond of the idea," Himmler said. "Or is it Josef that's bothering you?" He chose his words carefully so as to not insult his fellow Nazi elite. Himmler always spoke with a sense of caution – what was there for him to worry about? Roderich was the one whose life was in danger.
"No, sir, no one's bothering me. It's a little jarring to be a part of everything, especially something as big as this. I'd never have thought I'd be working for the minister of propaganda."
"It is quite nerve-wracking when you start out. How long have you been working with him?"
"Three months, sir," Roderich replied. "I've been preforming for five years."
"It's been five years? I still remember when Hitler brought you in for us, saying he'd found a musical genius in Vienna. How did he ever find you?" Himmler asked.
Roderich absently checked his watch – he had three hours until the bomb was set to explode. Even that felt too close. "I couldn't tell you," he started, putting on the faked smile he used for Nazi officials. "I was working with one of my professors on a Ravel piece and someone came in and told me the Führer wanted to speak with me. I thought they were joking. I refused to go with them, that is, until the Führer came into the room. He had me play a few pieces for him and we talked about my music. That was back in '37, though. And now I'm here, talking to you, sir, and working for Herr Goebbels."
"You were all of nineteen when you first came to Berlin," Himmler said, sounding like the father he wasn't. "We weren't sure what Hitler was doing, dragging a boy in here. I must say, I didn't expect you to be so talented. You certainly didn't look the part."
"Even today I don't look the part. I'm only a man from Salzburg, not someone who was meant to be a great musician. I was supposed to be a glassworker or a soldier or something else that my father found suitable."
"You've never talked about your father before." Himmler must've caught on to Roderich's hatred for his father, not quite asking about the man but not quite letting the subject go.
"He and I think very differently. We haven't been on good terms since I was about six," Roderich said. "I haven't heard from him since I moved to Vienna."
"I'm sorry to hear about that."
"What is there to be sorry about? I hate him, he hates me. It's better that we stay separated, or else one of us may end up dead." Once again, Roderich checked his watch. "I'm sorry, sir; it's getting late and I need to get back to Vienna. I hope you won't mind me leaving so soon."
"You seem more eager than normal. Is there someone waiting for you?" Himmler asked.
Regrettably, there is a woman waiting for me. Quite possibly with a loaded gun.
"No, I don't have anyone yet. I've got a lot of work to finish," Roderich answered, figuring it better to not talk about Natalya until she had her papers. He didn't know what nationality she was going to be yet, her age, even what her name was.
Himmler's sky blue eyes gave away his disbelief, but he didn't say anything against Roderich's lie. "You're a good man, Roderich. Who knows, some day you may take Josef's place."
"I doubt it. I will never have the charisma he has."
"You're charismatic; you just don't realize it," Himmler said. "Music is one of the most powerful things in the world. It can make people do things without them realizing. You could put that to good use."
"Maybe I could," Roderich said. He held up his arm in the half-salute the officials insisted he used with them, despite being so much lower than them. "Heil Hitler."
"Heil Hitler."
The first thing Roderich noticed when he went back out into the hallway was how empty it was. He was expecting at least a few people, seeing as Heinrich Himmler was in the building. There were two SS guards standing by the door, neither of the two daring to look at Roderich. Other than them, there wasn't a person in sight. Roderich went over to the staircase, glancing back at the two guards. They still stood at perfect attention, semi-automatic rifles crossed over their medal-laden chests.
His footsteps echoed in the stairwell as Roderich went up to the third floor, his knuckles white from holding onto the briefcase. Every step was like a gunshot, reminding him of the firing squad he was going to be put in front of if he made a mistake. Roderich half expected one of them to be a real gunshot from one of the SS guards.
And then he got to the third floor. Room 17 was right by the stairwell, the number engraved on a golden plaque with an eagle holding a swastika. Roderich felt like the eagle's talons were curling around his throat, an icy fear making his breathing short and sharp. He shouldn't go through with the plan, not when there was so much against him. There were eyes hidden throughout the building, hidden microphones and guards and things that would ultimately end in his death.
Roderich went into Room 17, heartbeat racing in his chest. It was like any other conference room, with a long table and chairs and painfully dull interior decorating choices. He could see why the Nazis would've chosen the office, as it wasn't anything memorable. People out to kill seven Nazi generals would expect them to meet in a lavish hotel.
Except for the saboteurs Roderich knew. The psychotic group of people he'd grown to love over the past months didn't think like most of the resistance movements did. Somehow, they'd figured out exactly where the Nazis were holding their meetings for the next two months and set up several different missions to destroy all of them. Roderich's was only one piece in the giant puzzle.
He closed the door behind him, going over to the long table. Natalya hadn't specified where to put the briefcase, only saying to make it as "unnoticeable" as possible. Roderich didn't know what qualified as unnoticeable for her; he slipped the briefcase in a shelf full of Nazi-glorifying things. The Nazis wouldn't bother to look there, or so he hoped.
What's happened to me? Roderich mentally asked a bust of Adolf Hitler, too scared to speak out loud. He draped a small red flag over the briefcase, smoothing out the swastika. I used to be a good man, you know. I really did. Until I started working for you, he added, putting the bronze head and shoulders of Hitler over the briefcase.
Oh, how fun it is to be part of the Nazi Empire.
Roderich took a step back, admiring his work. No one would notice the briefcase now – it looked like their beloved leader was on a pedestal. Everything would go accordingly to plan, and Roderich would unwillingly assassinate seven people.
He went over to the giant window at the far end of the room, trying to come to terms with himself. What was he doing, setting up explosives and carrying partisan plans around Vienna? Roderich put his forehead against the cold glass, closing his eyes for a moment. When he came to Vienna, he wanted nothing more than to live a quiet life as a composer. And now he was working for Josef Goebbels, preforming for Himmler, and working with the biggest resistance movement in Vienna. So much for a quiet life.
Roderich opened his eyes, looking down at the people of Berlin. He wanted to be like the people on the streets; carefree, blissfully ignorant, living an insignificant life. They had nothing to be guilty about, no worries or regrets or nightmares from all the awful things they'd done. They were just humans. Plain, simple humans. They hadn't involuntarily killed hundreds of people, set bombs in offices, lived a life they weren't supposed to.
And yet, even though Roderich had done all of those atrocious things, he was somewhat at ease with himself. Yes, Hitler had ordered for ghettos to be cleared because of Roderich's music, he was part of an assassination plot, and he should not be preforming for Heinrich Himmler. Roderich knew he should feel crushed with guilt and remorse and all the other things associated with murder; only, he didn't. For some reason, he was alright with everything. He was perfectly fine with being a Jewish Nazi saboteur.
And that scared him more than any Gestapo man could.
History Notes:
Heinrich Himmler – the Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel (SS). While many people blame Adolf Hitler for the Holocaust, Himmler was one of the main people directly responsible for the Holocaust. He was undyingly loyal to Hitler, even saying in one of his letters that if Hitler told him to kill his mother, he would. In another letter, he wrote, "Despite the work [sending people to concentration camps, running the Gestapo] I am doing fine and sleep well." Himmler visited most of the concentration camps where his men were working, even bringing his daughter with him to Dachau. His private letters were recently revealed to the public, putting a bit of insight into the man.
Bomb in the briefcase – alluding to Operation Valkyrie, a giant scheme for the downfall of Nazi Germany. I won't go into the technicality of it all, but basically, a man named Klaus von Stauffenberg put a bomb in a briefcase and placed it in a conference room on July 20th, 1944. It did not kill Hitler as planned, but was one of the first steps in bringing down Nazi Germany.
Sorry for the smaller chapter, but school's drawing closer and I have less and less time. I'll try better next week.
Thank you to EllaAwkward, Swing-Stole-My-Heart, Decoris, and FlamingFyre! You guys are the best ever!
See you all next chapter!